


Made of Monsters

by Bobinski



Category: Banana Bus Squad
Genre: Alternate Universe - Medieval, Angst, Army, Death, Evil King Anthony, Graphic descriptions of violence, M/M, Major character death - Freeform, Mino Character Death, Pirates, Prinve Evan, Rebellion, Slow Burn, Spies, War
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-02-08
Updated: 2017-03-31
Packaged: 2018-09-22 19:42:08
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 4
Words: 11,846
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9622709
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Bobinski/pseuds/Bobinski
Summary: Evil tyrant Anthony kills the current king and sells the prince. He rules the stolen land under a greedy fist. A spark of rebellion ignites a roaring flame. Having had enough, the resistance rises to take back the throne and return peace to the kingdom.





	1. The Loss

The kingdom was beyond words. So vibrant it's beauty both in decoration and in culture that there is no combination of words, no matter how brilliant and meaningful, can fully capture its grace and peace. A perfect utopia, and I use the word lightly as one man’s heaven is another man’s hell. But the place was next to bliss. So wonderful and exotic was the place that no painting could ever capture its full potential. One can't capture it all with paint alone.   
The winds were music that the children danced to. The autumn sun, when thrown just right through the multi colored leaves, painted the streets with rainbows. The air always smelled sweet and fresh like the baker’s best breads. The talk and chatter of the people were loving and caring. The ringing of the bells were lullabies. The people welcomed you warmly and when you had to leave they parted with sorrow.   
The king was just as perfect. He loved his citizens. He loved his kingdom. He'd listen to their complaints and he sought to correct the issues. He was easy with the taxes. He put them behind schools and fixing up the neighborhoods in need. He made sure every person felt included, respected, and part of his kingdom. He loved to see his people happy. That meant he was doing his job right.   
He'd taught his son the same. And his son was equally loved and loved the kingdom back. The prince’s birthday was celebrated as a giant Holliday. It was right around harvest. All the farmers would provide their best crop. The bakers would cook their best cakes. The butchers sold their best meats. The seamstresses decorated everybody in the finest silks and cloth. Everyone was busy and jolly when that festival came. And once the sun had set, they'd all clear the streets and the king with his son at his side, would walk and admire their kingdom and their people. They'd praise the artists who displayed their work. They’d weep at the latest tragedy the playwright put on. They'd dance and laugh with the celebrating citizens and the feast would be had.   
The kingdom was so pleasant that none could simply stop by for a visit. Many came to stay. Travelers from all over would spend their savings away to venture to the land of bliss. Word about it traveled faster than the best horses.   
But not all who heard of it wanted simply to enjoy what it had to offer. They wished to control it.   
Enter the tyrant Anthony. Where he was from, he was but a lowly Duke who hadn't much. His brother had everything. The crown and the money. He would be lying had he said he wasn't jealous. He was so envious that he'd became horribly sick. He'd heard about the kingdom and his mind fell to a crippling thought of want.   
He wanted it. He wanted all of it.   
His brother provided the funds he needed. And by this I mean that he stole a vast majority of his brother’s riches and men, and he turned to the kingdom. The people welcomed him with wide smiles he didn't return.   
It was easy for him to request and receive and audience with the king. Being a duke of a neighboring country, the king assumed he was here for business and he was more than willing to comply.   
In that innocent moment everything was just as it had always been. Perfect. The people barely gave any care to the traveler. Dukes and kings often stopped by. But everything changed within seconds.   
The dinner had been well. The king talked to Anthony as if they were old friends. The warmth of the conversation equaled that of the meal set before them. The duck steamed and filled the room with a stomach twisting hunger. The aroma could make mouths water from a mile away. Anthony ate it up happily. For the moment he would play along as he was expected to. He wanted to make sure things could go smoothly. He'd noticed almost immediately that the king wasn't well guarded. The trust he held in his people was far too great to have guards. His knights served the people. They came to their aid first. Always the people first. That made Anthony’s job far easier.   
The handful of men he'd stolen from his brother already outnumbered the stationized men here.   
Once his belly was stuffed full and plump, he made his move. In a swift motion, his soldiers blocked the exits. They easily overpowered what few guards that were there. The king froze. He looked calmly to his son to keep the boy from freaking out. While the small prince was indeed terrified but maintained the stillness his father had taught him to have.   
Anthony pushed himself from his chair with a dark laugh. The king remained as a statue. The blade fell cold against his throat. He didn't gasp. He didn't flinch. He remained as calm as he had been before. No words were exchanged. Nothing had to be said. They already knew what the other was going to say. So Anthony wasted no time. With a fluid move, he dragged his arm back. Skin tore like wet paper. Blood spewed freely from the open gash. It showered heavily upon his chest and the meal he hadn't finished eating. The prince made a small sound that immediately reminded Anthony of his presence.   
He moved quickly to deal with the boy. But his blade never struck the child. He couldn't bring himself to do it. He couldn't kill the boy. He chose instead to rid the country of the boy. He knew some greedy little beings who'd gladly pay with their lives to get their grubby hands on a prince. Royalty meant money. Mounds of it.   
That day was one of great sorrow. The blessed kingdom lost both their king and their prince. None knew of the boy’s location. They knew not if he were even alive. They fell into the greedy hands of the tyrant who bled them dry of all they once loved.   
The kingdom became devoured in a depression that killed the crop and the people. Illness ran as free as the rats that carried it. Everything beautiful about the kingdom fell apart right beneath their very feet and they could do nothing to stop it.   
The people revolted instantly. They learned quickly that their voices meant nothing to the new king. Bodies hung in the streets for the crows to pick at. Orphans gathered in heaps for warmth. Men and women were whisked off to prison. The rivers once clean now overflowed with spilt blood. Soldiers marched the streets. They enjoyed their power. They abused it and the people. The graveyard couldn't fit the constant flow of bodies it needed to hide. The sweet fresh smell of bread turned to the sour smell of rotting corpses.   
Taxes rose. The king took the people’s money and turned around to throw extravagant parties only other royals were invited to. And while the king dined and danced his life away, the people closed up their shops for the last time and marched with sunken heads to join the slowly growing mass of homeless others.   
And so would this be for year to come. After the fourth year passed, many believed this would be the rest of their lives. And for many it was. But when lightning strikes, a spark lights. And depending on the winds and rain, it could very much start a ferocious fire. The spark hid amongst everyone, too young yet to hurt anything, but with each passing day, he grew, and with him his army.


	2. Debt

The first few rays of sun pooled through the rotted cracks of the wooden shutters. Brock groaned aloud and rolled over to move the stream of light from his sleep deprived eyes. The straw he slept on rustled beneath him. It tickled him. No. It wasn't straw ticking him. Straw didn't crawl along his hand and up his arm. He cracked one dry eye open to inspect the cause. His dreary gaze landed on the spider and suddenly he was very much awake. He shook his arm faster than his tired muscles had anticipated. They bit back at him in a fit of disagreement.

He heard the pops of is aching joints and with that he knew that he wasn't going back to sleep. He scanned his immediate area for any more godless killing machines. Upon finding no other known spiders, he climbed to his feet and got to work.

The inn had become a homeless shelter he and Brian struggled to keep alive. They were severely understaffed. They had to keep raising their prices to keep the damned thing afloat. But so few could even afford some moldy rolls the baker threw out, what on gods green earth made them think they could afford this hunk of junk? It was weather worn and tired. It was in dire need of repairs they didn't have the means to fix. 

The stairs cried out beneath his weight. He just hoped it hadn't woken what few visitors he still had. He threw on his apron and darted from the sleeping quarters to the kitchen. 

Brian was already awake. These days it seemed he was always awake. The stove was red and alive. A rusted pan held severely broken eggs. They fizzled angrily. Brian barely spared Brock a glance and an unspoken, acknowledging welcome. Brock quickly filled their old and chopped plates with the leftover sausages and the fresh eggs. 

Slowly, the sleeping patrons awoke to the smell of food and wandered on down to stuff their starved faces and leave. Brock ran rapidly from one disgruntled face to another. None could be pleased with the quality of the food, their room, their service, or the inn in general. But it was the best Brock and Brian could offer with what little they'd been given. And with taxes rearing up on them, soon the little inn would collapse and both men would be abandoned souls on the streets. 

The stove caught fire again. The entire place filled with smoke that irritated their already sore lungs. Brian struggled to put things out. And with the birth of the fire, more chaos was bred.

Brock got called to and fro to fix issues he had no power over. Breakfast rush kicked in and the houseless souls on the streets walked in to drink away their sorrows and eat away their emotions. It was early for drinks, the sun hadn't even reached the sagging rooftops yet, but Brock happily filled up his mugs with as much booze as they desired. Frankly, he felt he needed a drink himself. 

Most mornings weren't nearly as busy. But things grew hectic when taxes rolled around. The king liked to take 50% of what they had. Spending profusely during taxes was almost a tradition. It was a way of some how proving you had money, money that Anthony couldn't take, money you had power over. And in the end, 'twas Anthony who wound up with less and less every time. So for the next couple of days, the inn would be oddly busy and the money flow would be greatly appreciated.

Breakfast rush ran right into lunch rush. Brock wasn't given time to sit. His feet ached from the constant standing and dancing. Brian occasionally ran out to help, but for the most part he remained in the kitchen to prepare the constant flow of orders. 

Noon struck. The sun above held all shadows prisoner beneath the people’s feet. 

Brock knew they were coming before they even set foot on the street. You can always tell when the soldiers are coming. It doesn't matter what kind of day you'd been having up until that moment. When the first armored horse and overly decorated soldier came into view, your mood dropped lower than the floor and you high tailed it out of there. Brock’s customers booked it. They ate quickly and paid even faster and then they were gone. Soon the inn was a hollow shell of rotting wood with only Brock and Brian to inhabit it. Brian hesitantly emerged from the kitchen to join Brock and await the soldiers.

The clapping of hooves told them they were here. The two instinctively stole each other’s hands. Their fingers intertwined, keeping them close. Brian could feel Brock’s steadily climbing heartbeat through his palm. 

The doors burst open angrily. The poor rusted hinges let out monstrous cries that they'd been meaning to fix. And in strut the peacocks of men they were forced to call their superiors.

“This place smells like ass,” the first laughed to his buddies. He kicked aside a stool that was nowhere near in his way, but fuck it. Why not right? Brock stiffened. Brian attempted to calm the man by rubbing soothing circles on the back of his hand. 

“Which of you is the owner of this shit hole?” 

“I am,” Brock quickly answered. He ignored the side eyed look Brian gave to him. They shared ownership over the inn. They always had and always will till the inevitable hand of death taketh away. But Brock knew that the soldiers were butt-heads and he didn't dare risk them hurting Brian in any way if he was able to prevent it. Brian would understand.

“Sad.” Brock felt Brian tense. Now it was his turn to try and subtly calm the other. 

The soldier moved about the cramped dining area. He inspected the tables and frowned at the stains. He ran his finger along a dust covered shelf and wiped it off on another soldier.

“I'll be glad to see this piece of shit get shut down,” he mumbled to the soldier before turning back to Brock, “Taxes?”

“They're not due till the weekend.”

“Nawp. We’re here today. That means we’re collecting the taxes today. So where’s it at?”

Brock fell silent. Brian looked from the soldier to his lover. They thought back to their sales. As much as they'd been, they weren't enough. They wouldn't make enough till the weekend. As time stretched and neither men dared move to fetch what little they had, the soldier had grown sick with impatience. 

“Alright, boys. This is how it's gonna go down. I'm going to assume you don't have the money. So I can either shut this place down right now. Or I can add you to the debt list and come back tomorrow. Double will be expected of course.” He rolled back on his heels and scanned the two’s disapproving scowls. He was filled to the brim with glee. Nothing made him feel better than crushing the lives of the defenseless. It made him feel powerful.

“Tomorrow it is. Good day, boys.” And with that he lead his men out whistling joyously. The soldiers teased their friend with his given word nawp, which was supposedly a hybrid of nope and nah, before seeing themselves out. Silence suffocated the inn. 

Brock collapsed in a heap against the counter with his head in his hands. Brain moved to comfort Brock in any way he could. His hands hovered over Brock’s shoulders before deciding to rest on them.

“Debt,” he groaned, “debt. We’re in debt. We can't pay this off, Brian. They're gonna throw us in debaters prison.” Brian was quiet for a while. He let Brock panic softly for a bit. It was his habit he developed when they'd first opened the inn. The walls were as thin as parchment. He didn't want to worry his customers. So he'd mentally collapse in on himself silently, leaving Brian to pick up the pieces. 

“I mean, beats the streets. And we’ll be together. If you think about it, it could be much worse,” Brian offered. Brock looked up with a sad grin. He takes his fingers through his hair and sighed heavily.

“You're right. You're right.” He thought for a second and opened his mouth to add some other worry he was certain they couldn't avoid. A worry he felt he needed to voice. But the worry never fell from his mouth as the doors opened with a scream of the hinges. 

“You open?” A voice called through the stillness. Brock pushed Brian back into the kitchen and quickly fixed himself up to be the perfect, smiling host.

“Yes, sir! What can I do for you?” A man walked in shyly. He looked about with more curiosity than judgment. He smiled softly at Brock and gave a gentle nod before he reached the counter.

“How much for three rooms?”

“Depends on how many nights you'll be staying for.” 

The man grinned widely at this, “Say two nights?”

“I uh-” Brock hesitated on how to tell the man that there was a high chance that the inn would be closed by tomorrow. Before he could speak, the man placed a heavy bag of coins on the counter with a satisfying thud. Brian poked his head around the corner at the sound. He threw Brock a questioning look that Brock wasn't able to answer.

“Will this suffice?” The man asked. Brock hesitantly opened the sack and peered inside. The shimmer of riches that stared at him made him want to puke with joy. It was enough to save the inn and pay the debt. 

He was torn. He felt he was cheating the man of his money. This was too much. Survival was important to him, not just his, but Brian’s. He had a devil on his shoulder demanding he take it and run. But the angel spoke before his demons could even move.

“That's more than enough, yes.” He reached to count the exact change for three rooms for two nights. It was a small sum, barely enough to pay their taxes before the added debt. But it was still something.

“I insist you take it all. I over heard of your situation. I wish to help.”

“There are others who need your charity more than we,” Brock argued back. He slid back the sack once he removed the needed cash. The man pushed it back.

“I am not paying for their services, I am paying for yours.” 

Brock frowned. He didn't dare move towards the offered cash. His mind was made. He wouldn't, nay he couldn't, accept the money.

“Take your change and pay for their services then.”

“They have nothing to offer me. You offer me and my men a place to rest and food to eat. That's all that I need, and I need it greatly. My strong need is my reasoning behind my overpay. You are saving my men’s lives by letting us lodge here. I figure I owe you back the favor. Please sir, take the money.”

Brian walked in. He smiled gently at Brock and gently nudged him aside. He smiled at the traveler and began to sort the collection of coins into their small jar. He removed the paperwork and set it before the man.

“Thank you for your kindness. Rooms A 13, A 14, and B 9 are available.” Brock glared at Brian. He glanced at the traveler as if to make one last silent plea. The traveler had made up his mind, and he was far more stubborn than Brock. With a huff, Brock moved to hunt down the room keys. He returned shortly, annoyance still worried his face.

“Thank you.” The traveler scooped up the keys and made his way to the stairs. His boots thudding on the ground echoed through the empty inn. Once he was out of earshot, Brian turned to Brock excitedly. He took Brock by the waist and swung him around with a smile the size of the sun plastered on his face.

“The gods have blessed us. We’ve been saved!” He pulled Brock close and squeezed him tightly. They fit together perfectly. Brock’s head rested against Brian’s chest. He could hear the soft call of the other man’s heart beat echo in his ears. He found it calming to find that it mimicked his own. He put aside his distaste for the generosity of the traveler. He put aside his suspicions and worries. His shell melted away and for one moment he let himself be happy there with Brian. 

There was a noticeable shift. The entire inn felt more lively than it had in years. If you listened closely, you could hear music playing in the air like it used to. It drew others towards it. Everyone sought a home. And that night, there was no greater a home than the inn.

A bard marched in nearly an hour after the visitor. He had his instrument clutched tightly in his arms the way one clutches a loved one. It was as if his entire soul resides inside it. His smile shone brightly and further warmed up the inn. An arrangement was made. He paid them for the use of their stage, the patrons could donate to him and he could keep what he earned. Soon his gentle singing and the strumming of strings beaconed more to enter the inn.

The breakfast rush was nothing compared to the sudden life that breathed within the walls of the inn. Men sat in large groups chatting and laughing. Drinks flowed like running rivers. Brock had to help Brian prepare the ordered food. A group sat in the back gambling away what little they had. It was as if Anthony weren’t the king. As if taxes weren't slaughtering them. As if things had gone back in time. And nobody was complaining.

The sun set and in walked four men. They scanned the inn momentarily before exchanging worried glances back at each other. The shortest man lead the way. He barely stood taller than the men sitting at the benches. His messy tuff of black hair stuck out and that was the only way Brock had spotted him. At first he thought the man a child. But once the man approached the bar followed by his three friends Brock spotted age with in the worry lines of the man’s time nibbled face. 

“We’re looking for a friend who may have stopped by earlier and bought three rooms?” He spoke. His friends eyeballed the patrons with great interest. The tallest shifted from one foot to the other, visibly uncomfortable.

“Jon, what if this is the wrong inn?”

“We’re about to find out, Marcel, calm down,” a third spoke calmly. 

Brock offered a small smile at the men, “Yes. Rooms A 13, A 14, and B 9. I'm sure he's in one of those three. Just up those stairs there.” 

“See? Told you this was the right place,” Marcel quickly spat. The fourth chuckled lightly at his remark before all four turned to hunt down the traveler from earlier. 

Slowly the night began to calm itself. The darkness lured the patrons to rest. Brock and Brian made a sweep around the inn with their rags to wash up the spilt drinks and the crumbs. They danced with rooms before seeing themselves, along with everyone else, to bed.

The day had been hectic and unpredictable all around. Sleep sounded like the sweetest of poisons. Brian pulled Brock along to their resting quarters. He hummed happily and pushed open their door.

Brian fell to a fit of snores almost immediately after his back came into contact with their thin straw mattress. But sleep did not reach Brock. As the years passed it took longer and longer for the man to find sleep as his partner did. Often times his thoughts of doubt and his fears raced around in his head. He'd be paralyzed, trapped forever to stare up at the ceiling above. Tonight was no different. He thought of the debt they just narrowly avoided. He thought of the traveler. He thought of the worry he hadn't had a chance to speak. He worried that he'd wake up and relive it all over again. That somehow this was some dream caused by illness. He hoped that if he stayed here for as long as he could, he'd be able to prolong the inevitable. He'd be able to savor this odd happenstance of bliss just a bit longer.

The stress wafted from him in waves that rivaled that of the angriest oceans. Brian suddenly moved close, caving Brock in a tangle of limbs. The contact eased some of the stress. It further assured that today had been real. 

“What troubles you?”

“Today troubles me.”

“Today always troubles you. What of today is it that keeps you up? What troubles you?” Brian nuzzled his nose into the crock of Brock's neck. It was a small gesture that urged Brock to open up to him. One that Brock fell for every time.

“We got lucky today. Enormously lucky. I feel as if our luck has cheated others of theirs.”

Brian went still and silent. He pondered upon what Brock proposed. He gnawed on his lip as he struggled to put together his thoughts into words. A tired sigh escaped from his throat.

“I don't believe this is what troubles you.”

“Pardon?”

“What troubles you is that had our luck not saved us, by this time tomorrow, you'd be chained to a wall. You'd be alone in debtors prison while I remained here.”

Brian knew then that he'd hit the target right in the bullseye. Brock went rigid against him. Brock had the strangest ways of defending himself. His silent breakdowns. His sudden lack of emotion. His sudden statue like abilities. They were small and difficult to detect, but Brian had learned what each twitch of the eye meant, how each exhale was weighted with an emotion, and how to decide them. 

“You didn't want me to go. That's why you said you owned the inn, knowing full well that you don't. We do. But they don't know that. So they'd only take you. We wouldn't be together. We’d be miles apart from each other. And that's what troubles you.” 

Brock gave only a sad hum in response. Brian could always read him like a book. He liked that. Brian smiled against his skin.

“You wanna know what troubles me?” Brock made a small sound of interest that made Brian giggle, “What troubles me is the fact that you thought I'd ever let that happen.”

Brock rolled over with a broken smile. He wasn't sure if he should cry or smother Brian with hugs. He did the next best thing. He placed a soft kiss against the stubble of Brian’s jaw and pulled the man ever closer till there was no space between them. Brian released a happy sigh of sorts before once again returning to the realm of sleep, and this time, he took Brock along with him.


	3. Confession Time

"I don't like it.”

“Jon, you don't like anything! Evan brings up a good point, we need to get farther from the kingdom.”

Jon crossed his arms and frowned deeply. Craig groaned aloud and spread his map along the floor for all to see. He pointed at the castle and looked back up to ensure that Jon was listening to him.

“Tyler and Smitty are stationed too close already. We risk our lives, their lives, everyday they're there.” He dragged his finger down to a small clearing in a forest just a day’s walk away. “Our camp is growing. The king’s men are desperate for some entertainment. They’re patrolling everything. It's only a matter of time before we get found and everything goes under!”

“But to move farther means it’ll take longer to get back. An emergency rush could take us two days to finally enact. By then, our men will have already exhausted themselves.” The room stared at him ready to argue. He held up his hand to keep them quiet. “That two days could ruin us. We are asking men to die for us. We are risking their lives. The king’s punishment for treason is one not even Satan would dare demand. Two days is more than enough time to realize that if we get caught, the consequences will be severe. Those two days could weaken our army. What good would we be then?”

“Jonathan! Our army would be no good to us should we be discovered weeks before we’re even ready! Pushing back will grant us more time to prepare. We need that. We can't risk losing what we have,” Scotty cut in. Craig nodded in agreement before casting a sharp glare at Jon.

“Keep your voices down, men. None can ever know what ears will hear and what mouths will repeat.” The room turned towards Evan who'd been oddly quiet since he'd brought up the idea of pushing his men back. The rising tension had forced their voices to grow with it. None had noticed. They were so used to the freedom of the forest to worry about others overhearing them. 

“We need more time,” Marcel added softly. Jon looked from face to face. He sighed heavily and sank to the floor. His fingertips massaged his temples. A migraine had him in its tight hold. Annoying.

“Fine. But I still don't like it.” 

Marcel shot Scotty a look. Such a phenomenon wasn't uncommon for the two. They understood each other beyond words. Often they could hold a conversation with faces alone. Their thoughts flowed on the same wave length. In a moment when their eyes met they'd both thought the same thing. Scotty pulled himself from the bed he was resting on and rubbed the back of his neck.

“I’m going to bed. We can talk again in the morning. Marcel?” The other quickly skipped in to follow Scotty. Craig watched them leave before deciding to see himself out as well.

Evan shut the door behind the three. The silence that fell between him and his right hand man hurt. It didn't use to hurt before. But these days, the silence had gone sour. 

Jon knew what Evan wanted to say, what he was going to say. He remained on the floor with his head in his hand mentally willing away the headache that overcame him. Evan stared at the man on the ground before falling back on the bed Scotty had been resting on only moments ago. 

“I'm trying my best, Jon, I really am.”

“I know." The response was meant to shut Evan up. End the conversation at that and they could argue more about it later. But he'd softened the edges in his voice, something he only did with Evan. A gentle plea for silence.

He pulled himself off the floor and flashed a forced smile. Evan hadn't seen it. He was beyond exhausted. The day had been more chaos than he was capable of handling. There were many days where the chaos overwhelmed him. Usually on those days he had Jon to fall back on. But today it was Jon who'd caused a vast majority of the stress. 

The two didn't speak after that. It was clear Jon didn't want to. It was clear Evan wasn't interested. So Jon blew out the lantern and climbed into bed. Neither men slept. Stress kept Evan’s heart pounding. He was mentally exhausted but physically awake and capable of running a marathon. Jon was the opposite. He had a thousand thoughts bombarding his head to the point it spun wildly, but his eyes burned like fire, melting in his skull. They absorbed the silence to fuel their sleepless irritability. 

Craig had a room to himself. No other person to try and argue with him. No one to laugh with. No one to vent to. Not anymore. He had Tyler once. The two were as inseparable as Jon and Evan. If not more. But they held skills in opposite fields. Tyler was good at being what he wasn't. In this case, Tyler was playing the lovely role of the king’s servant. Craig was stuck here providing attack strategies on the castle using the information Tyler and Smitty smuggled. The two were separated and lacked any way of communicating as they used to. Craig didn't get to wake up in the morning to Tyler’s laugh. He didn't get to joke with him. He felt very much alone despite the fact that he had all the others with him tonight, and more back at camp. But it wasn't the same. They weren't Tyler. They could never be Tyler.

Marcel and Scotty had decided to take a walk. They wanted to explore the inn a bit. It was a cozy thing. The two had gotten so accustomed to sleeping in tents that they'd forgotten what a house (of sorts) felt like. Scotty inspected the paintings on the walls of dogs and children. The trophies that hung in the dining area were old and falling apart along with the rest of the place, but still they were mighty and proud. He hated the thought of having to leave the inn in a day’s time. It wasn't much, but it was more than he'd had in years. 

“Evan mentioned soldiers being here. Think we should worry?”

“Nah. As long as we pretend to be normal people in need of a place to stay, sad and sick like everyone else, no one will ever suspect a thing.” Scotty took comfort in Marcel’s words. He figured they could hide in their rooms and wait the soldiers out. 

“Jon’s making things unnecessarily difficult.”

“He's just worried. We’re all worried. We've put too much into this for it to fall apart now. We've gotten so far. He's scared of it dying at the last possible second.” 

“I'm worried it'll kill itself before the king does.” Marcel winced at that. He stared at Scotty for a second. 

He looked at Scotty as if he'd never seen the man before. They were strangers in that second. Something strong disconnected and both men were alone for the first time since they found each other as fellow orphans on the streets. He hadn't expected such a comment to fall from his friend.

“You think we’ll lose?”

“Terribly.” Scotty caught the face Marcel made and quickly found himself desperate to defend his position. “The king has an army, a well trained, funded, and armored army. He has more soldiers than he knows what to do with. We are but a small band of rebels who barely have enough food to pass around. Our tools are self crafted and hardly staying together. Our troops are angry men only out for themselves. We have no hope in winning this.”

Marcel thought on what Scotty had said. He leaned against a table to reflect on their group of rebels. The first few flames of a fire yet still unborn. Flames capable of growing or coughing into nothing. The morale had fallen as of late. The winter hurt everybody. They lost more than they recruited. And now with the laws growing tighter and tighter by the day, men were less likely to risk their lives, their families’ lives, for a group barely breathing. Still, he thought about how they'd managed to slip in two spies beneath Anthony’s very nose. He thought about how they'd lasted this long. He thought about how they didn't seem willing to just give up. He believed in them. 

“We share a common enemy. The king holds his strength in the claws of fear. Fear can easily be beaten with persistence and bravery.”

“Bravery is just a kind word for reckless stupidity.”

“Perhaps. But we are stupid for a good cause. We aren't ready for this war. Not yet. But I believe, in time, we will be. Be patient. The king’s ego can only stretch so far. Soon he’ll forget he is still but only a man. Still mortal. Still flesh. Just as are we. He’ll be his own downfall.”

Scotty was silent. He had doubts he physically muted but mentally screamed. Marcel sensed his unease and quickly spoke to chase them off.

“Don't you worry. In two days, we’ll be relocating to further protect us. We will use the time given to further strengthen us. And we will dethrone the king to further better us. Have hope. Have faith. Have courage. Be brave.” 

Scotty smiled now at Marcel. He gave a nod that voiced he'd listened. He would no longer allow the thoughts of doubt corrupt his mind as they had Jon. He happily let Marcel lead them back to their room. The two collapsed on the bed and a comforting sleep drowned them instantly.

Brock had gotten up upon hearing voices on the dining area. They'd been robbed before and he was terrified that the voices were more robbers. He thought their luck had run so dry it caught fire to burn them alive. He thought of the tax money they just earned. He thought of how its loss would destroy him and Brian. The thought made him want to cry. 

He found no one at the counter. But he did find two men in the dining area. They spoke soft and easy, the way parents speak to their frightened child. Despite this, he'd over heard almost everything. Bits and pieces fell every now and again, but never enough for him to lose what they were saying. He'd heard their talk of their plan. The dethroning of the king. He'd heard it all.

Speak of treason such as this was a crime punishable by death; a public hanging after fifty lashes. A heavy reward was given to those who found and reported rebels such as these. Brock knew that harboring them could bring him a far worse punishment. Brian too. He knew for their safety he should turn them in. But he didn't. He let the two return to their rooms and he returned to his.

He thought of it, dethroning the king. He thought of the tyrant finally getting what he deserved and a new leader bringing them forth from the pits of despair. He thought of the end of this era and the birth of a better one. He found his dreams that night of the pleasantness of it. 

He dreamt of the way things had been. He'd been but a boy when the king fell, but he could still remember it. He remembered how his mother, while she was still alive, would sing to the tune of the wind and his father would dance like a fool. He remembered how perfect things had been. He wanted so badly to return to it. 

That following morning, three of the five visitors left. Two remained behind enjoying each other’s company by the fire. They ate and drank to pass the time and laughed. They retreated into their rooms only moments before the soldiers arrived. Brian handed over the jar of money with a shit eating grin. The soldier took it from his with a humph. He'd been looking forward to taking another man away to the prisons. Ah well. 

Traffic had slowed again once the soldiers arrived. Brock hadn't even noticed they came and went. He didn't notice the emptiness of the inn. He didn't notice how he moved without thought. A routine was embedded deep inside his muscles and he was free to just think so think he did.

He found himself lingering on the idea of ridding this land of the king. He thought heavily on the idea of returning joy to the people. He thought of the men he was harboring. 

He felt as though inside his inn was a treasure only he knew about. Something people would readily kill him for. He shone brightly as the thought of it rejuvenated him with youth. He felt like he'd learned a secret and was oh so eager to tell his closest friends but held himself back from doing so. He was excited. And yet also terrified. And at the same time, he wanted to be involved yet also no where near this. Bravery, he thought back to the conversation he was never supposed to hear, is just a kind word for recklessly stupid. And that's exactly what he wanted to be.

He left the inn for a bit. Brian waved him goodbye quickly before returning to what little work was to be done. Brock walked the length of the rotting village until he stumbled upon a crumbling church. He walked through the intimidating doors and entered the dust bitten house of worship. Moths fluttered about blind and begging for light to flock to. The door was their window of freedom. But their wings could not carry them fast enough. Just as the light from the unknown outside word was given, it was just as easily taken. And once again the moths were trapped in darkness but now they had Brock as company.

They flew to him with great curiosity. Brock didn't mind their fluttering. He walked on towards a booth he'd been in only a couple times. It had been a length of a while since he'd gone to church. He felt greatly unwanted after choosing instead to be with Brian rather than any woman he'd met. He feared that he'd catch fire if he dared step foot inside. He felt he needed to confess this fact, his love, but that was not what he was here for. No amount of Hail Marys could save him from the pits of hell. He didn't want to be saved. He knew that he loved Brian now and would love him still in hell and Brian would return his love. He was happy knowing he'd spend an eternity with the person he loved most. No god could ever take that from him. 

He entered the booth and closed the door gently. He cleared his throat and hesitated a moment. After he'd recollected his thoughts and had finally settled on why he was here, he spoke.

“Forgive me father, for I have sinned.” Then he fell quiet again. He felt smaller now he was in a box of judgement. He felt more caged than any bird ever could. 

“Go on, child,” the priest gently encouraged. Brock gave a small nod.

“I have found myself sick with thoughts no man should dare themselves to think. Thoughts against the divine, yet not upon the lord and savior. The man only believes himself to be a god. He treats us as if he is our god. And my next chosen words can send me to an early grave. He has birthed these thoughts in me, vicious, evil thoughts. Thoughts that lead to sin. And I fear the devil has taken command over me for I bear no interest to ignore these thoughts.”

The priest was quiet. He thought upon the words suddenly thrust at him and the meanings behind them. Once they finally clicked, he turned to the barely visible man in the booth besides him with a look of concern.

“And you fear these thoughts? Fear of their consequences? You wish not to stray from the light of God?”

“Nay, sir.”

“You wish to be free of these thoughts then?”

“Nay, sir.”

“You fear the unholiness of these thoughts?”

“Nay, sir. I have chosen my path. I've decided upon my fate. I know the sins I'm going to make and that this consciousness of them is the closing of the gates so heavily guarded by Saint Peter. I do not come here today to seek help, father. I come to seek forgiveness for what I am about to do. I fear that now may be the last time I'll ever have the chancery do so."

Again the holy man was silent. He'd heard many secrets before. He'd prayed for many souls before. He'd begged God for forgiveness and granted the message unto the sinner. He'd heard many things in his time but none such as what he had just been told. He knew not what to do. He knew not what to say. 

All he could say was a hollow, “May God have mercy on your soul.”

Brock understood. There was no saving him. He knew that from the beginning. He didn't come to be saved. Only to get the secret off his chest before it burst in him. He rose slowly and left, leaving the priest to sit alone in the darkness to ponder upon what he'd been told.

Never had Brock felt more free. The weight of the world was suddenly lifted from his shoulders. He walked with a slight skip back to the inn where Brian awaited patiently.

Business was still just as slow as when he'd left and he didn't mind this. He slipped easily back into routine.

That night, the three returned tired and sad. Their two companions who'd remained behind greeted them warmly in the dining area. Tonight, these five were the only visitors. Brock turned the sign beyond the door, prohibiting any further visitors for that night. He needn't bring any attention to what was about to unfold.

Brian had gone to clean the dishes while the men were away. Brock took this time to confront them. He approached their exhausted group with a round of drinks meant to warm the body. He set them down softly with a warm smile before taking a seat. All eyes had fallen on him.

“We didn't order any-”

“It's on the house.”

The group exchanged untrusting glances from one another before trying to size Brock up. They could tell he was a man beneath the heavy foot of stress. But his features were soft and kind. The kind of face that easily drew trust from strangers. 

“I heard you talk last night. I wasn't meant to. I never should have heard what was said. But I'm glad I did. I wish to help in any way I can.” The men stared at Scotty and Marcel. The two shrunk a bit as blood nipped at their cheeks. Jon frowned at Brock.

“Who have you told.”

“I have told no one. Only I know of your intentions.”

“We can't trust him. He left today,” Craig threw in quickly. The group turned again now with anger and fear towards Brock.

“Only to think. And I have thought. You aim to take back the throne. I wish to help.”

They all turned to Evan. Jon could already see and understand what Evan was thinking and he was not having it. He rose from the table with a slam of his hands against the wood.

“No! No way!”

“Jon-”

“For the love of God men, think this through!”

Marcel steadily stepped back from the table. He gently pulled Jon away from the table to speak to him privately. Brock remained put. The others remained in place simply exchanging glances. Their conversation was silent yet deafeningly loud. Brock squirmed a bit. 

The two returned after a while. Jon sighed aloud. He could feel their eyes burning through him awaiting for his response. Jon locked eyes with Brock, apparently set on his answer. He gave a sharp nod. Evan grinned.

“We could use all the help we could get.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for the wait. Had a college audition out of state, hoping I make I think in! Enjoy! Will try to update more regularly.


	4. Oh

“You have to be shitting me!”

“Jon, how do we normally get new recruits?”

“But uh-!” He threw his arms above his head. He was exhausted already with this mission. He didn't like Tyler and Smitty being unreachable beyond enemy lines. He didn't like how oddly conviennent it was that someone else wanted to suddenly join. He didn't like how willing Evan was to jump the tracks and roll with it. He knew something was wrong.

“I don't trust him.”

“Did you trust me?”

“No.”

“Did you give me a chance?”

“Yes.”

“You trust me now don't you?”

“With my life.”

Marcel smiled, ”Give him a chance. Who knows. Maybe you'll get a new friend out of it.”

Jon fell silent. He was worried that if he opened his mouth, ten thousand reasons why he just couldn't give this man a chance would come flying out of him. He respected Marcel. He respected Evan. He wanted what was best for this war, for the future of their kingdom. He knew he was a one man army in this fight. He'd rather stay around to be there when things did eventually go wrong. He knew this was a bad idea but wasn't about to take off when his team might need him the most.

He'd just watch Brock. Test him. And if things went wrong, he'd kill him, kill Brian, and burn this inn to the ground. Brock would best see to it that he remained the perfect little soldier. 

After an uncomfortably long stretch of silence, he finally gave his answer unvoiced. Marcel waited a second, suppressing his own thoughts of doubt. The two hesitantly made their way back to the awaiting table. Evan took notice of change and grinned. 

Jon watched Brock’s response. The man looked terrified. The way a man looks when they realize they fucked up. The look your uncle gives you after handing you his beer and hopping on to his dirt bike, riding it backwards down a steep hill, missing the ramp, and falling into the lake. That look just before all goes to shit. Regretful. Thrilled. Terrified. 

That seems to be how everyone reacted when they first joined. Hell, Jon was sure he made a similar face. But something rubbed him in the wrong way. He just wasn't sure what.

“You any good at cooking?” Evan quipped quickly. Jon bit his tongue. The argument he wanted to shout against this action was burning in his lungs. He shot Marcel a look but kept his silence. Brock gave a hesitant nod.

“Excellent. Take only what you need. We leave before sunrise.” Craig rose from his seat. He shook Brock’s hand, beyond glad that they got a new recruit. And a useful one too! He saw himself, Scotty, and Marcel to their rooms to rest for the rest of the day. 

Jon threw about a shroud of caution about himself. He gave a reassuring glance towards Evan. He wasn't fooling him. It took more than a carefully drawn about facial expression and posture to deter Evan when it came to Jon. He was just glad that the fighting was over for now. He excused himself and left, leaving the two alone.

As he left, he took the veil of relaxation created moments before. Suddenly the tension was through the roof. Brock wasn't sure what to do. He could feel Jon’s eyes burning through his skin, pushing past flesh, ripping through bone. It felt as though he was under a witch’s spell, forced to expose his soul and thoughts to an untrusting stranger. He felt vulnerable and suddenly wanted nothing to do with this man. He wanted to retreat back to the kitchens and chat with Brian about anything other than what trouble he was getting himself into.

Brian. Shit. What was he supposed to tell him? There was no way in hell he was dragging Brian into this mess. Brian wasn't a soldier. He didn't belong in battle. He belonged here where he was safe. He knew he should tell Brian about what he was doing. What he planned in doing. But he knew Brian like he knew himself. Brian wouldn't let him go alone. Brock wasn't about to drag Brian to what could be his potential death. He'd have to lie. 

The way he saw this, he had two options. He could die in battle having lied to his beloved, leaving him to forever wonder where he went or what happened. Or he could watch Brian get taken from him and forever live knowing it was his fault. Between the two, he'd happily take Brian alive over being honest anyday.

He sighed and made his way over to the kitchens. He could hear the other singing away. He focused on that, glad to have something to distract him from the burn of the star Jon continued to give. 

Brian stood besides the basin struggling to scrape the burnt remains of what Brock assumed was a rabbit from a pot. Brian chirped a small welcome. Brock stood for a moment, unsure how to go about approaching this topic.

“Stew tonight then?”

“Gotta put them carrots to use before they go bad.” 

Brock watched a bit longer. He hesitantly took a seat on the counter where he'd be out of the way. Brian continued his small mumble of a song. Brock fought the hands of time to allow himself to soak in what very well could be the last time he'd see Brian. He studied the other carefully. He willed his memory empty of all to allow room for Brian and all his glory. 

The stubble on his chin. The blue of his eyes. The gleam of his hair. The shape of his jaw. That small eyelash that was resting on his cheek. Everything. 

He built himself a time machine and forced himself to remember every last second he spent with this man. The good. The bad. Everything in between. He forced himself into a whirlpool of emotions tied to them. Now all stained in a sepia color of sorrow. He never realized how little time they had until then. He no longer wanted to join these strangers. He wanted to stay here and create more memories. He wanted to study Brian for the rest of his dying days. 

But he thought of the king. He thought of the tyrant at large. He thought of the tax scare. He thought of how when this succeeded, if this succeeded, things would get better. Not only for Brian, but for everybody. They'd be saving hundreds from the tragedy so many others had suffered before.

“The plaintiff wasn't too happy with us.”

“That's no surprise.”

“Brain,” he gently cooed. He didn't know what to do from here. He scanned his head for the best way to put this. Brian looked up from his work. He studied his beloved carefully. He set the pot aside and took Brock’s hands in his.

“What happened?”

“I have to go.”

“Now?”

“Tomorrow morning.”

Brock watched Brian’s face fall. The light in his eyes vanished. Sorrow swam up from the depths of his heart and flooded his eyes. He tightened his grip on the hands in his own. He was suddenly too scared to dare let them go.

“Pray tell, what happened when you went out today?” 

“I can't explain it.” 

Jon moved closer to the bar. He listened in on the conversation. Every word Brock spoke was being memorized and judged. One word, one single syllable out of place and he was dead. He watched their shadows. Memorized their posture. 

A sudden stab of pain hit the bundle of emotions he'd stuffed away. They brought back memories of him and Evan before all this. They spoke the same way. It was the same good bye. And while his good bye did eventually lead right back around to a hello again, it was saying good bye in the first place that hurt. It hurt even then, when he knew that he'd met up again and had been included in on this adventure. It hurt beyond words when the sad good byes had been said.

“What do you need?”

Jon wasn't sure what hurt more to hear. He put himself in Brock’s shoes. Here stood a man saying goodbye for what may be for the rest of his now shortened life, and his closest friend is lending as much support available. Was this what Evan had felt when he'd gone away? 

“A hug, in all honesty.” 

He could remember it all as though all the tomorrows had never been, still echoes of yesterdays passed long ago. As if he and Evan were still in that grimy alley. Evan had asked for more than a hug. Jon had asked, begged, for Evan to change his mind and stay. It took all the reasoning Evan had in him to sway his beloved to stay behind and let him go. And not even that had stopped Jon from running after him. 

Evan had left when he was asleep. Before the sun could rise. He'd taken a stolen mule and was gone before Jon could awake. He woke up that morning cold and alone, something he hadn't been since the start of all this. He'd been good. He remained alone and cold for a good week before it got to him and he sought out his beloved. He found him no shorter than a month. That hello had been a fresh breath of air after spending years in a mine. Neither truly knew how much they needed it. It only made memory of the good bye all the more painful. And the threat of another was unbearable. 

He felt like a monster now. He wanted to run back to Evan and beg him to turn the man down. But he knew he'd get no where. He'd already lost this one. So all he could do was listen and watch and wait. 

And upon realizing that he was sympathizing with a stranger he had yet to trust, he stopped himself from falling further down memory lane. He needed his mind to be sharp when dealing with this new recruit lest he stab them in the back. He pulled himself away from the bar and retreated back to his room to help pack and think on anything else other than good byes. 

He focused instead on the threat of tomorrow, a looming doom that grew ever darker as each tomorrow became today.

He slept better that night than he cared to admit. Pressed close to Evan, he felt the stress melt away. He took that night off to worry not about anything and simply appreciate the time he had with the other man. He let himself melt and fit into the other. He took safety and comfort knowing that he had him still and that he'd be there again when he awoke. Their hearts beat as one, something the stress had not allowed in months. And he felt at peace with himself. 

Brock could not find that peace. He and Brian stayed up all night dreading the inevitable. They clung to each other. They were terrified that if they let go, the other would just up and vanish. Neither were ready for that. They weren't sure they'd ever be ready for that, and yet they would have to be. Seconds passed far too slow and yet far too fast. 

Time had grown against them. They knew Brock would have to leave. Brock could hear his new companions stirring and knew it was due time he did to. He peeled himself away from Brian, a heart wrenching act he wasn't prepared for. It physically hurt being apart. Brian jumped up to help finish packing whatever they hadn't earlier. The necessities. Not much. Just enough. Brian had slipped in a small memento to help remind Brock of home, and to keep each other close despite the unknown distance soon to split them. It was a family heirloom. A ring. It had been his mother’s, earned when his father dropped to his knee in ask of her hand. He had planned on gifting it to Brock many nights, yet every time he wished to do so, something ruined the moment. He felt safe knowing that it would lie with Brock, as it was always meant to. 

And time was up. Brian watched the rest of the group file down the stairs and I to the dining area. Brock was slow to join, taking just a handful more time to spend with Brian. And he was gone. Brian watched them. 

He was lead away from the inn. They moved on foot. Horses had been wanted, but horses were status symbols of wealth and often got stolen or lead to ambushes that none of them needed. 

They used the outskirts of town as cover, and when town became nothing but farmland, barely used and barely usable, they fell into the forests that stretched on endlessly. They walked in for a good majority of a day. Eventually, the sun began to fall from the sky as it did every day. Evan and Jon fell into a small fight over whether or not they should stop. Jon won. The team stopped for the night, collecting enough to put together a small fire and warming up small portions of rabbit. 

“You said you cook, right?” Marcel was unable to hide the hopefulness behind his voice. Brock nodded. Marcel handed over the three rabbits they had for rations.

“What can you do with this?”

“I can fry it?” Marcel shook his head. Fried rabbit had been the only thing in the menu for far too long. Brock looked about for any recognizable herbs he could use as spices. There wasn't much, but he could probably do something with some roots he spotted. 

“I'll see what I can do,” he chirped, taking the rabbits and setting to work. Marcel danced a bit as he rushed to rejoin Scotty. 

“I'm telling you, a cook is exactly what the camp needs. Nothing brings up the spirits of men more than a good meal.”

“What of music?”

“Music cannot fill the stomachs of men, Scotty!”

Scotty laughed. Marcel was right but he refused to let him be. He grabbed the group’s weapons to complete their routinely cleaning, “You clearly haven't listened to the right music then.”

Marcel scoffed and moved to help. Craig watched their paths carefully. His ears strained to catch every last rustle of the plants surrounding them. He could tell apart what was a rabbit and what wasn't. Brock’s constant movement was throwing him off but he learned to adapt. It made him giggle a bit. He moved around the way Tyler would. 

Tyler was very adamant about checking the area for snakes. Hated those little bastards. Often he'd spend hours just making sure there weren't any snakes to be found. When he found one, he'd always run to Craig for help killing it. Craig always found that the oddest sight. Tyler was a very intimidating man, not one to mess with. And he always became this puddle of terror when a snake was found. 

He turned to watch Brock a while. The man was walking about collecting plants. Three rabbits dangled at his hips. He gasped aloud and smiled triumphantly. He plucked a thick snake from the tall grasses. With a quick flick of his wrist he snapped its neck and added it to the rabbits. Tyler would have liked this man. That is until he discovered he'd be eating the snakes. 

Jon watched Brock just as Craig was. Evan sat besides him, struggling to keep the fire alive but small. He looked up to see what Jon was staring at.

“What on earth are you going to do to him?”

“Watch him. For now.”

“And later?”

“Test him.” 

Evan rolled his eyes. He thought back to Marcel. He'd been a Shepherd when they found him. His fields had been burned. He had no home. His sheep had been murdered. He was alone and left to die. He had only Scotty, who he'd nearly died saving. Jonathan had quickly welcomed Scotty. Scotty wormed his way past Jonathan, past Evan, and I to the heart of the camp where he helped mend and tend to cloths. Marcel had a temper that Jonathan just couldn't trust. 

He was a valued man however. Finding people willing to join them was hard enough already. Finding a person with medical skills and knowledge was even harder. The amp readily welcomed Marcel with open arms. All were thankful for his arrival. Only Jonathan had a problem with him. 

Jonathan swore that Marcel was up to something. He didn't like how this man’s main drive was his hate. He'd watched Marcel carefully. Drama has a habit of running ramped in the very veins of their camp. There isn't a society without its fair share of drama. Marcel hadn't exactly been warmly welcomed by a few other hot heads. He'd beaten them in a game of cards and they were out for blood. 

Around that time, Scotty had fallen severely ill. The winter was rapidly approaching and his chances of survival were slim to none. Marcel had gone away for a couple days to hunt down what he could to turn to healing herbs to save his friend once more. On his way home, the group he'd beaten stopped him. 

Jonathan watched as Marcel held up against his own, only going as far as to defend himself. He never hit back, not on purpose. He still had a goal. He had to get to Scotty. Despite his size and agility, he was no match for the gang. Bruised and bloodied, they left him a heap of wheezes and coughs blindfolded by a burlap sack and beaten with a branch. He got to his feet and forgot about them. He got to Scotty and stayed with him, forgetting his own injuries. He stayed up for days with Scott. 

Scotty gave everyone a scare that evening. His already shallow breathing had stopped. Jonathan couldn't forget how Marcel sobbed while desperately doing everything within his power to save Scotty. In the end, he'd succeeded. Scott lived to see another day, and another after that. When he'd opened his eyes for the first time since his illness, Marcel had hugged him and refused to let go. 

When the ones who'd attacked him found themselves injured, Marcel hadn't turned them away. He took them in and stitched them up, waited with them until they too felt better. 

He'd passed Jonathan’s expectations. Jon had spent nights warning Evan that Marcel was the type of man to cling to hatred and revenge. That was no way to lead an army. He found himself apologizing to both Evan and Marcel after that event. Marcel had proved him wrong in every last way. Marcel didn't hate the king for taking away his form of livelihood. He hated the king for hurting Scotty. He lived and fought for Scotty. He and Jonathan were two scraps cut from the same cloth. 

But Brock wasn't like Marcel, and that what set everyone off about Jon’s mistrust. Jon could see Brian being a reason behind Brock’s urge to fight, but it wasn't enough. 

He didn't eat dinner that night. He didn't trust it. Marcel and Scotty loved it though. The two fought over the last portion of the stew viciously. Craig was happy to have a warm meal in him once more. They'd been surviving off of porridge for the past month and a half. The soup had been an excellent change. Evan had to agree. He knew that the camp would adore Brock. Most people adore those capable of giving them good food. That's how he'd first met Jonathan. Who would have thought that the small time pastry baker would become his closest friend and his best soldier?

He slept soundly that night. Most of them did. The night before had forced them to. Evan regret not sleeping in a bed when he had the chance. His back missed the soft straw compared to the cold mud. Still, sleep cradled him like a child and carried him softly to sleep. 

The morning came far too fast. They left before he had really woken up. His body moved, used to the motions, but his mind slept, struggling to kick into motion. He wasn't fully awake until he'd found himself at the camp again. 

Tents speckled the horizon. Men moved sluggishly to and fro. A field wa filled with men in makeshift practice armor, all armed with a staff, practicing their swings, and thrusts before being equipped with a real sword and armor. Another group ran laps around the entire camp. The black smith’s shop threw smoke into the morning skies, blackening them. The sound of metal on metal broke through the dreary morning. Those working on sharpening their utensils or readying what few game they had all turned their heads away from their work to watch their leader return home.

All eyes slowly fell on Brock. Fresh meat was an unusual treat but needed. As long as Evan allowed him then he was fine, for now. 

A man tore from his tent and ran towards the group. He held a scroll tight in his hands, scared that he'd let it go and it would be lost forever. He stopped only a foot away from the group and struggled to catch his breath enough to breathe.

“Captain! Plans sent from the rats!” He handed over the scrolls before taking back off. Evan glanced back at the others. Instantly they got the message. Jonathan moved to walk besides him. Marcel and Scotty caught Brock by the arms and lead him away.

“Let's get you to your new station. Nogla’s honing to be glad to have you on board.”

Brock followed happily. He took in the sights, the sounds, and the smells of what he was now expected to call home. It was no home, but it held an aura he hadn't felt in years. The very energy of it wasn't what the kingdom held. This place thrived and breathed. This was the kingdom lost being rebuilt, as slow and as painful as that process may be. It was young yet, still in the early stages of healing, yet Brock knew it well. This was no camp, no inn, but it was indeed home.

“Oi! Scotty, being be over that bag of grain, would ya?” A man shouted. Marcel suddenly frowned. He rushed ahead of Scotty before the man could obey the given order.

“Not today! No porridge today! Nope! Nogla, we got you another cook. One who knows how to cook too, I should add.”

A tall man stuck his head about to find who this new cook was. His last cook was a disaster and he was petrified this was going to be a repeat of it. He studied Brock carefully. He frowned back at Marcel, who was now beaming.

“Fine. Boy! Hand me that bag of grain there, would ya?” It brought him great joy to watch that cocky, confident smile fall dead on Marcel's face. He suppressed the laugh that bubbled in his chest. Brock obeyed, only making Marcel frown further. 

“See what you can make out of it,” he added. Marcel slowly relaxed. He left with a wave, following Scotty to go find their own station.

Evan disappeared into the security of his own tent. He waited patiently for Jonathan to sit besides him before revealing the gift they'd been sent. And so early too. Neither had been expecting it. They were pleasantly surprised to have been gifted a layout of the castle, bedrooms, hallways, secret passages. Their boys were doing work. Maybe they could win this war after all.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Tips, suggestions, and recommendations are appreciated! Love y'all for the support <3


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